


indolence

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Season/Series 11, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 03:32:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10800813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: After a long hard hunt, Sam doesn't really feel like getting out of bed.





	indolence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bratfarrar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bratfarrar/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】indolence/怠惰](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11215689) by [Moilip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moilip/pseuds/Moilip)



> @thebratfarrar requested: something _comfortable_.

Sam gets up and takes a piss around four in the morning, a slow stumble in the dark, not opening his eyes. He gulps cool water from the sink to ease his dry mouth, hands cupped below the faucet’s stream, and then goes right back to bed, slipping under the blankets and rolling back up close to Dean’s warmth. It’s silent, and most of the lights in the bunker are off because they didn’t throw the main switches when they got back, a few hours ago, and so it’s easy to bury his nose in the soft-sweet smell of Dean’s hair, and to let all his muscles go slack into the stupid memory foam mattress, and to completely ignore the world for a few more hours.

When he wakes up again, it’s more slowly. He’s a little overwarm—when isn’t he, really, but Dean likes sleeping in his room more often than not. Sam endures the heat-sink of the memory foam to get the other benefits of sharing Dean’s bed. Dean’s still in the same position, tipped forward onto his side, hugging a pillow and dead to the world. Sam pushes his half of the blankets down a little and stares at the pale span of Dean’s back, letting his brain come online slow. It’s dim, but the constant half-light from the hallway filters in through the grate above the door. Enough to see by, once he’s used to it. He reaches out and traces the big curved bruise where Dean got tossed into the fence post with a single, light finger. Dean doesn’t even flinch. It was a long hunt—most of a week, sleeping light and moving fast, taking out the whole pack of adlets, and then the drive home, all the way back from the northernmost corner of Vermont. Just awake enough when they got back to the bunker to shower, get the blood off, and then tumble directly into bed.

Sam turns onto his back and stretches, as much as he can with the footboard in the way, and then settles back down into the mattress, feeling himself out. A little achy, from the running and the fight, and he’s tired but not unbearably so. The clock on the bedside table says it’s just a few minutes until six, and he could maybe sleep more. He scratches his chest. Lets his hand drift down a little further and scratches at his balls, and then cups the weight of them, lets his fingers curl up over the mostly-soft shape of his dick. Mm. He pulls one knee up, a little, makes some room while he idly rubs himself, lazy. Feels good, and he’s not exactly drowsy but he doesn’t feel like getting up, either. Just wants to stay here, in bed, comfortable, where it smells like  _them._ He wraps his fingers all the way around himself, tugs gently at the swelling weight, and—okay, yeah. He glances over at the solidly asleep shape of his brother, drags a thumb up the sensitive underside of his shaft. He could just get himself off, right here, but.

He rolls onto his side, settles a hand on Dean’s hip. God, Dean’s warm when he sleeps. He presses an inquisitive kiss to the hollow of his skull, nose brushing through the soft buzz of hair, lets his mouth drag down to the side of his neck. He tucks his fingers under the stretched-out waistband of Dean’s old boxer-briefs, grazes soft giving skin. “Hey,” he says, quiet, “you up?”

He gets a grunt, for that, low-down-deep and barely audible. Dean shifts, tilts forward more and rubs his face into the pillow he’s strangling. Sam smiles, mouth tucked against the curve where Dean’s shoulder meets his neck. Yeah, Dean’s not a morning person. He rolls closer, kissing along the line of his shoulder where it’s too dim to see the freckles, rubbing a slow firm circle into the curve of his hip, and Dean mumbles some nonsense into the pillow, doesn’t budge.

Sam didn’t bother with boxers when they went to bed and the lube’s at easy access in the bedside table. He peels the blankets down, careful, so Dean’s almost-bare to the cool air, and it’s a bit of a challenge to get the boxer-briefs down but he’s slow enough about it that Dean doesn’t seem to wake up much—lets Sam turn him more onto his belly, dragging the fabric slowly down the thick muscle of his thighs and out from under the weight of his body, until they’re off and Sam can see all of him, pale and solid and pretty in the barely-there light. His hair’s a soft muss, his ass plush when Sam palms at the high curve of it, tracing down the sweet slope to his back. Dean sighs when Sam pushes his right leg up higher, but he just—allows it, smacks his lips and sinks down into the bed, lets Sam do what he wants. So lax, and easy. Sam loves this.

Dean doesn’t stir much at one finger, though he makes a soft little  _hmm_  into the pillow at two. That’s usually enough, when he’s awake. Sam props his head on his hand, watching the side of Dean’s face, and slips his fingers out, smears lube around the slick hot space. He’s hard all the way, now, nudging up against the back of Dean’s thigh, but—this is good, too. He slots his thumb inside, easy where it’s soft and open, and pulls, stretching, just feeling the heat and give of it. Dean’s eyes open, just a little, at that, and Sam pulls out his thumb and pushes in three fingers instead, a lube-slippery bundle, breaking through the muscle slow and steady, and Dean’s lips part. Sam leans down and kisses his temple, his hair swinging out from behind his ear, and Dean tilts his face into it but his eyes close again, obviously trying to stay asleep, and Sam thinks, _okay_ , his stomach glowing hot. Okay.

He gets another grunt when he pushes in, scooped up behind Dean’s body, holding him close and warm. He slips his lube-sticky hand over Dean’s belly, shushes quietly against the back of Dean’s ear, but he spent so long prepping Dean that it can’t be painful—Dean’s used to it, for one, no matter how big he complains Sam is. Dean shifts his hips, though, with a sigh, and Sam pauses, just a few inches in. “Too much?” he says, keeping himself quiet. There’s a little pause, Dean shakes his head, once, still mostly-burrowed into his pillow, and so Sam rests his forehead against Dean’s hair, closes his eyes, rocks his hips slow and easy. Dean’s slippery and so-hot inside, familiar, and when he’s sleepy like this he breaks open even easier, muscle relaxing around Sam, letting him in deep. He doesn’t have much leverage in this position, and sex on Dean’s bed is always harder because of the memory foam, but right now that doesn’t matter. He spreads his hand out wide over Dean’s stomach, nudges deep and just rests there, for a long minute, pulsing his hips just enough that he can feel Dean, tight warmth all around him. God, it feels good.

Dean’s breathing slow and Sam matches it, stroking his thumb idly over the gentle curve of Dean’s stomach. He could fall asleep like this, all wrapped up, together. They’ve only done that a few times and they woke up separated, of course, but it’s something fun to imagine—coming out of sleep already inside, Dean wet and open and ready, so all Sam would have to do is fuck forward and then—mm. Sam rocks his hips, just thinking of it, and okay, no. He doesn’t want to fall asleep, not at all. He keeps rocking, easy rhythm like waves coming in to shore, and he slides his hand down Dean’s belly to where the soft short hair starts, reaches and finds Dean practically soft, his dick small and warm in Sam’s hand. God—Sam shivers, shoulders to hips, and gathers up all that vulnerability in his palm, propping himself up on one elbow again to get a better angle. Dean frowns a little, squirms his ass back into Sam’s hips, and oh, yeah. That. Sam rolls his balls, careful, and Dean sighs, edge of a groan to it. “S’my,” he mumbles, sounding almost like a complaint, and—and fuck, okay, Sam can’t take the gentle pace anymore.

Dean blinks when Sam pulls out, and Sam shushes him again, kisses a little sloppy at his temple, at his cheek. He sits up and shoves his pillow in closer, rolls Dean back onto it so that he’s cushioned, and Dean lets him, of course he does. Sam feels way too hot, now, his face so warm he knows he’s flushed all over, but Dean just lolling onto his back for him is—fuck, it’s so gorgeous. He kneels up, weight sinking oddly into the stupid bed, but he pulls Dean’s legs open anyway, knees up between them and lifts Dean’s hips with one hand, tugging the pillow out of Dean’s hands and pushing it under the small of his back with the other, so that once he’s ready Dean’s hips are tugged up into his lap, his thighs sprawled out wide and loose over Sam’s where he’s knelt in close, and that means Dean’s cozy and comfortable and still circling around the edge of sleep, and that means that when Sam cups his hips in both hands and tugs him forward, slots in easy where Dean’s broken-open, Dean only groans out another soft little noise, his head tipped back and his mouth barely parted, eyes closed, one hand curled up on his chest and the other loose on the bed. Sam lets his own head tip back on his shoulders, fucking forward leisurely. It’s quiet, beyond his own breath, with Dean mostly-silent and the giving mattress unable to creak, and so all that’s left to focus on is the feel of it—the perfect glide in and out, finally able to get really deep so that he’s pressed all the way up into Dean’s spread soft ass, the heat of him intense.

They’ve fucked like this before, of course, though Dean’s usually more awake—and, when he checks, Dean’s not asleep, of course not, but he’s also not really _with_ Sam, despite the flush rising up in his cheeks. Sam can feel himself dragging along, inside, the angle perfect to hit Dean’s hot spot, and yeah, Dean’s eyelids flutter, his chest rising in a deeper breath sometimes when Sam pushes in, but he’s still trying to keep his eyes closed. “Lazy,” Sam says, quiet. Dean does slant him a sleepy-eyed look, at that, and Sam laughs, soft, and gathers up Dean’s dick again, maybe half-hard now, plump but not straining, not even close. He drags his thumb back and forth over the base, the skin delightfully giving, and Dean squirms, full-body, plush ass lifting up for a moment into Sam’s thrust in, and—oh, more. “Do that again,” Sam says, on half a breath, fingers cupped loose around Dean’s softness.

“You do it,” Dean says, mumbly, and squirms again, stretching his arms up above his head, pure laziness. Sam wants—for a second, everything, wants to turn Dean onto his belly and nail him into the mattress, wants to pull out and eat Dean out until he’s moaning and crazy, wants to suck his dick and make Dean suck his and also wants to kiss him, soft, until both their lips are sore and bruised—and, well, that he can do, without moving too much, and so he says, “Fine,” and curls forward, crushes himself up deep into Dean and brings his hips along, too, and Dean groans but then Sam’s on his mouth, licking in where he’s sour, plush lips and his tongue lazily slipping against Sam’s, his jaw relaxed, and god, Sam grinds forward, reaching down blind and catching one of Dean’s thighs, pinning it up against his waist so he won’t slip out—and then he snaps his hips, once, sharp, and then again, and Dean groans into his mouth, flinching.

“Awake now?” Sam says, mumbling against his lips, and Dean makes a little _nuh-uh_ , the stubborn shit, but his thighs clutch up around Sam’s hips anyway, and then Sam’s free to fuck forward into him, braced on his elbows, curled forward and close and tight together, Dean’s dick slipping against his belly, still not-quite hard, and Dean—he doesn’t care, he just sighs and lifts up into what Sam’s doing, takes what Sam’s giving him. Fuck, he’s not even touching Sam, his arms still just carelessly tossed up above his head, knuckles grazing the headboard, and the mattress isn’t giving any bounce-back and so Sam has to nail him with all his own strength, pulling out just an inch or two before shoving in again and again, buried up close in the clutch of Dean’s body, sweat growing between them, and he puts his mouth just under Dean’s ear and goes as fast as he wants, as hard as he wants, kissing randomly at the soft freckled skin, and it’s almost a surprise when Sam comes, his balls giving it up all at once, clutching up tight and unloading. _Oh_ , god. Yeah. He keeps moving, hips working through it and burying it deep in Dean, only stilling when his hips spasm, held up tight and close into the vague heat. He hums, brushing his lips over Dean’s throat, and gets a grumbly groan back. So good. When he sits up his back pops vaguely, cool air whooshing between them. He slides his hands up along Dean’s thighs to keep them in place, close against his sides.

Dean blinks at him, licks his lips. Sam’s balls pulse, a little, and he rocks forward again just to make Dean’s eyelids flicker. “Feel good?” he says, smiling.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t be cocky,” he says, but it’s still rough, still sleepy somehow underneath, and Sam pulls out, finally—cold air, ugh, but it’s worth it to fill Dean up immediately with three fingers, slot them in where he’s sloppy and see the shock widen his eyes. “Oh, okay,” he says, breathy, closing his eyes again, and Sam eases out from underneath him, knees cracking and his thighs sore, but that’s easy to ignore in favor of shoving in deep, scrubbing up hard against the slickness of his insides, slipping in on lube and his own mess. He leans in and sucks a kiss to the base of Dean’s dick where it’s finally, finally hard all the way, wraps his other arm around his hips, shoved between him and the pillow, and works him slow, hard, dragging his fingers over and over that spot, making his dick jerk under Sam’s tongue. He groans, long and low, and Sam kisses the base again, pulls back and looks along the line of his body where he’s pink and flushed, his teeth digging into his lip, eyes squeezed closed.

“More?” Sam says, and watches Dean nod, and watches still when he tucks his pinky in, stretches Dean out wide and slow and unstoppable, his thumb dragging up the lube-slick tight skin, and Dean’s thighs quiver hard around him, the muscle jumping and Dean’s hips flinching away, but Sam flutters his fingers and sucks careful at one of Dean’s balls and it only takes a few deep, careful thrusts, knuckles tucked up close against the rim, before Dean gulps air and cringes his hips up and comes with a drawn-out groan, just like Sam wanted him to. Sam keeps his fingers where they are, pressed up hard, watches Dean’s dick jerk with it as he unloads onto his own belly, until finally Dean’s gasping and he fumbles clumsily down to Sam’s shoulder, clasping, saying, “Okay, okay.” Sam lets his fingers slip out, gleaming wet, and when Dean’s hand tucks into his hair and tugs he follows it, crawling up awkward over Dean’s boneless sprawled-out body and finding his mouth and kissing him, slow, sloppy, tired all over again. Their bellies smear together and he can’t quite stop petting Dean’s trembling thigh, but Dean’s hands are twined up in his hair, pulling a little as Sam licks into him, biting soft at the plush curve of his lower lip, and so, maybe they’re even.

After a while Dean sighs, into his mouth, and tugs sharply enough at his hair that he pulls back a few inches, leans up on his elbow. Dean licks his lips (reddened, and wet, and Sam feels a tug low in his belly, even now) and tips his head back against the bed, stretching out beneath Sam’s weight. They look at each other for a few seconds.

“You owe me a cup of coffee,” Dean says, finally.

Sam snorts, and tips a little to the side so he isn’t crushing Dean so much. He keeps a thigh tucked over Dean’s, though. “I’ll make some,” he says.

Dean groans. “This is the problem,” he says, and continues when Sam raises his eyebrows: “Doesn’t really feel like a repayment when you make your weak-ass coffee.”

Sam raises up higher on his elbow. “Oh, sorry, I guess it doesn’t really count unless your spoon can stand straight up in it,” he says, dry.

Dean nods. “Dark as a black steer’s tuchus on a moonless prairie night,” he says, but he closes his eyes again and covers Sam’s hand where it hasn’t left his side.

It’s too warm, but the bed really is comfortable, and Sam curls down again, rests his head against his bicep and watches Dean’s still profile in the dim light. It’s almost eight and normally he’d have taken a run by now, would be working on one of his projects—scanning possession files, maybe, or working on the Elamite translations—but, well. They did a lot of running over the last week, and the possession files aren’t going anywhere. He draws a circle on the side of Dean’s belly and watches the corner of Dean’s mouth curl up, then closes his eyes. Another quick nap can’t hurt anything. Dean sighs, and turns in against Sam’s chest, their legs tangling together. Sam slings his arm over Dean’s waist and settles in, Dean’s breath coming warm and slow against his chest. Maybe he’ll let Dean make the coffee, when they wake up. He doesn’t mind the black-tar kind, so much.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/160246561329/read-on-ao3-sam-gets-up-and-takes-a-piss-around)


End file.
